231AA
He was seventeen now.
The boy who danced was no longer here.
King Damian sat upon the Coral Throne, a majestic construct of crystalline reef and ancient shells, carved by hand in the first days of the Seaward Camelot's founding. The throne glowed with a gentle light beneath him, but it offered no warmth, no softness. He wore silver robes now, stitched from threads older than most kingdoms and gilded with the sacred markings of royal blood. His hair, once tousled by saltwind and sunlight, was now combed smooth and black as deepwater. The innocence in his gaze had curdled into something colder, something refined.
He ruled with the precision of a blade.
Behind him, the stained-glass wall of the High Court shimmered with refracted light, painting the chamber in ripples of sea-blue and kelp-green. The great window displayed the ocean in all its moods. Beneath storm, under moonlight, in moments of calm. He no longer looked to it. Once, the sea had made him feel alive. Now it only whispered memories.
"My king," an advisor said gently, bowing his head. "The preparations for the Lantern Ceremony are underway. Shall I order the tidepriests to—"
"Let the commoners have their lights," Damian replied, his voice smooth but hollow, the sound of something long sealed in a box. "But no fireworks this year. I don't want the sound mistaken for an attack."
The advisor bowed again and took his leave.
The moment the chamber emptied, Damian pressed his fingers to his temple and released a quiet breath. He hadn't slept properly in three nights. His dreams came in flashes. Blood, glass, the obsidian needle buried in his father's heart. Sometimes, in the darkest hours, he caught himself reaching toward his own chest, half expecting to feel that same cold sting.
The assassin had never been found.
No trace. No signature. No demand.
And though whispers abounded, sorcery, curses, rebel sabotage, Damian suspected something deeper. Something older. The blade used had not been forged by any smith of this world. Its shape, its strange energy, had done more than kill his father. It had erased him.
He stood and walked to the edge of the court, where the open-air ledge overlooked the floating city. Lanterns were already being strung between the walkways, their crystals humming faintly in the breeze. Children chased gulls, nobles drifted past on glass-bottomed skiffs, and the first notes of song floated upward.
He stared down at them all.
"I will find him," Damian whispered. "Whoever did it. I will unmake them."
A guard passing nearby paused at the tone. Damian turned toward him.
"You. Did you ever visit Paradise?"
The guard stiffened. "Before it burned? No, my king. I only heard stories."
"Hm. And the boy they say escaped—the noble's son—was never found, correct?"
"Correct. The Alveretta heir vanished after the sacking. Word is he died with the rest."
Damian gave a slow nod. His eyes narrowed as they scanned the horizon.
"I doubt that very much."
Far in the distance, where the sea turned dark and the sky pressed close, the old silence waited. The same silence that had stolen his father. That had stolen peace. That had stolen laughter.
He would find it. He would drag it into the light.
He turned to the guard, his voice sharp and clear, like a blade unsheathed in ceremony.
"And also… call upon the Merikqlan. I'm done waiting idly by for results from mediocre detectives."
The guard blinked. "The Merikqlan, my king?!"
"Yes."
He hesitated, jaw tightening. But one look into Damian's face, calm, regal, immovable, was enough. The guard gave a deep bow and hurried from the throne room.
He descended into the palace's lowest ward, far beneath the seaward spires and gleaming halls. There, in a place stripped of warmth and silence, he found the one they had locked away long ago.
A dungeon cell sealed with cursed stones. A figure seated cross-legged in meditation.
The imprisoned mage opened his eyes before the guard even spoke.
"Summon them," the guard said quietly. "The Merikqlan."
No response came. Only a slow, deliberate rise to his feet and then the chant began.
The air bent. The runes carved into the walls flared gold, then white-hot. The stone beneath them trembled. The mage's voice multiplied, overlapping itself in strange harmonics, echoing from every surface like the dungeon had become the throat of something ancient. A surge of magic burst upward like a spear of starlight, piercing through the stone above, reaching the throne room.
There, in the center of the chamber, the beam cracked the marble floor. Glyphs spiraled in midair, orbiting like rings around a falling star. Light bent and twisted until five shapes began to form. Drawn from wherever time and space had once scattered them.
The first was Acheron.
A woman with cropped, ghost-white hair streaked at the roots with soot-dark gray. Her eyes were cool, unreadable. She wore garments suited for stealth and quick murder: tight sleeves, leather bracers, dark boots. Nothing about her presence needed witness. She stepped forward like a whisper sharpened into steel.
Next came Styx, barefoot and humming.
A man with tousled gray hair and eyes filled with a strange sparkle. His clothes were a chaotic mess. Clashing hues, charms stitched into loose cloth, feathers dangling from uneven seams. A dozen pockets jingled with trinkets. He smiled easily, but it never quite reached his gaze. There was something off about that joy. Something hungry beneath the grin.
Then arrived Lethe.
Tall. Composed. Her long black hair shimmered with hints of pink in the flickering chamber light. Draped in formal silks and gloves that concealed every inch of skin, she moved like a queen in a rival court. Her eyes scanned the space, memorizing it, measuring it. She smiled just faintly. Amused by something only she could hear.
The fourth was Phlegethon, severe in bearing.
His black hair slicked back with careful precision, his face like something carved from judgment. He wore deep violet robes embroidered with the silver sigils of forgotten gods. A crystal-topped staff rested in one hand; a thick, iron-clasped book in the other. He did not speak. He didn't need to. His presence was a sermon.
And finally came Phrair.
She didn't walk. She glided. Her hair was snow-white, cascading down her back in perfect, luminous waves. Her gown shimmered like ivory moonlight, stitched with beads that glittered like starlight. Her face held a gentle smile. A sweetness so flawless, it unsettled. Her eyes blinked too slowly. Her expression held too much joy. A joy that seemed carved into place.
Together, the five stood before the throne.
Beings of the past who sold their souls to the Fayemonts during the Erudition Pendigram as eternal servants. Forced to obey any command of the Fayemonts. No matter the risks of the action.
Damian rose. The crown upon his brow caught the fading pulse of arcane light. His gaze swept across them with quiet reverence.
He sighed, taking a moment to study each of them carefully. His gaze lingered on Acheron a second longer than it should have, just enough to notice the layered contrast in her hair.
"I'm sure you're all confused. It's been a hundred years since your last summoning."
Rising from the radiant coral throne, Damian began to descend the steps toward the five figures below.
"My name is Damian Fayemont. The ninth king of the Seaward Camelot and sovereign of the Land of Tides."